Letters
by RosemaryBagels
Summary: Life just fell apart. These are things he should have said. Things he wanted to say. Things he would never get to. A series of letters from Arthur to Francis, written but never sent. Rated M for character deaths and depression. And cause I'm paranoid. First Fanfic.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello! This is my first fanfiction, so if you bother to take the time to review please don't murder me with negativity. I'm going to go ahead and say that I do not own Hetalia or anything associated. And warn you that there will be character deaths. And, so you don't get confused:**

**Alistair: Scotland**

**William: Wales**

**Dylan: Ireland**

**Cailean: North Ireland**

**And now... On with the story. Enjoy!~**

Dear Francis,

It's been a while since I've talked to you, and even longer since I've seen you, and oh god, I just called you by your first name, what the heck is wrong with me? Well there are many things wrong with me, but right now the only thing on my mind is you. Which is strange, because it's been ten years now. But enough of that

I probably don't have to remind you of the stupid, slimy frog face you are. But I will anyways.

Nowadays, I am constantly reminded of my younger self, and of better days. Do you remember the time that Gilbert managed to sneak some weed into the brownies for the Christmas party? Even I couldn't help laughing my ass off at Mrs. Crysan's face when she found out, and laughed even harder when Alfred covered for him.

I'm only remembering this incident because Cailean dug out a box of brownies from the back of my closet that Alfred sent me years ago. It took a full fifteen minutes for me to convince him not to eat the stale pastries. Bloody hell, my brothers are such idiots.

I can't actually remember how many times I've told you or them that I hate their guts, but I guess you were probably right for not believing me. Even though I never talked about it, you were a better friend than I would ever have liked to admit, and I kinda wish we'd stayed in touch.

But I guess, after the way we parted, there wasn't any way to hope for that.

You're probably laughing at me getting all sentimental over a letter. Well fuck you, frog face. I can be whoever I want.

And I think it made you mad that you could never change me.

-Arthur Kirkland.

.

Dear Francis,

Today was crappy. And for once, I am willing to admit that British weather sucks. The gale outside was enough to knock over trees. To make things worse, Alistair burst in here today on the pretence that "some company" was going to be good for me. Does he not have a life? Of his own? Preferably somewhere far away so I wouldn't have to listen to his annoying drunken rants anymore? (I thank every god I've ever heard of that he didn't show up drunk.)

I really don't think the neighbours appreciated the singing though.

He brought me food to try and pacify me. The food was crap. I don't know why he thought hamburgers were a good idea. He claims he forgot. I think he was just deliberately trying to annoy me.

I barely thought of you for those ten years, but now that life has slowed down, my thoughts began to wander a bit more freely.

I'll have to assume that when you left London, you went back to Paris. I know you always wanted to. I don't think Antonio and Gilbert ever understood how much you missed it. I didn't either until I moved out of London. Now I understand all too acutely.

I would like to wish you luck with your love life, and hope that you've finally found someone, but I know if you're anything like me you've spent the long years alone. Trying to work past the memories.

I think if Gilbert was still alive, he would have laughed at the life we've found ourselves in. He would have found it so frickin hilarious that we let something so petty get to us. Then again, he was always someone to scoff at love.

Maybe it was his lack of ability to communicate that caused him to commit suicide.

I don't think we'll ever know.

It's another thing I wonder.

-Arthur Kirkland

.

Dear Francis,

Antonio sent me a postcard from Spain. I have no idea why, I was never really friends with him. He seems happy enough, Feliciano has published another novel, and the two now share five houses, despite the fact that I'm sure they haven't seen each other in months. And Antonio got arrested again, for kissing someone who called him bastard. He never learns.

And he still blames you, why I have no idea. If there was anyone to blame it would have to be either Roderich, Elizaveta, or Matthew. I can't help but feel sorry for him. In some ways, he got off worse than us, with Ludwig going after him and what happened to Lovino…

I'm going to cry just by writing this.

Why did everything seem to happen to us?

-Arthur Kirkland


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Alright! Here's chapter two! I'm not even sure if anyone is reading this, but I don't really care. This story isn't actually going to be that long, because I want to keep the backstory veiled in shadow. Although at some point I may go back and write from the points of views of others still living.**

**I still do not own Hetalia!**

**I apologise for stupid typos.**

Dear Francis,

Do you remember how we first met? I was so mad that you'd spilled your coffee on my only copy of Romeo and Juliet, but when I looked up and saw your eyes, I forgave you. Though that didn't stop me from griping about it for hours. But I have to admit that I was touched when you went out and bought me a new one, and then introduced yourself as the new transfer student. I don't think I ever told you that I was flattered by your generosity, or that I didn't actually mind that much when you called it a date.

Those few weeks we had together were like magic. I don't think realised just how much I'd liked you. But I still knew how sorry I was when our friendship broke after school started. And ridiculously mad at you for keeping something that important from me.

But then again, you never appreciate what you have, until it's gone. And I suppose that will always be the truth with us. Broken enemies that only managed to connect every once and a while, but each time meeting with enough sparks and passion to remind the other of what their missing. What they lost.

What was never found.

Do you regret it just as much as I do?

-Arthur Kirkland

.

Dear Francis,

Do you remember that night? That one night that I was truly happy that I'd met you? The new years in our final year of high school? The one where, as Alfred was counting down in a voice loud enough to annoy the neighbours, we snuck outside to look at the stars. I said the stars were magical, and you said the magical one was me. I'll never forget that night. There was an almost tangible happiness in the air. A sense of magic that anything was possible, and didn't truly wear off until the week later when you said you weren't returning to Paris, and was instead moving in with Jeanne.

The nights are all cold and empty now. There is no warmth in the air, no song on my lips. No magic in the night. There is only me, alone in my room, listening to the clock tick. And with every tick I am reminded of mistakes that I made. Things that should have been done differently. Things I wish I'd said, that I was too afraid to. Things I wish I could take back.

You know, it's funny. Every single thing I regret happened in and around our high school years. In the ten years alone I have nothing to regret, except for the fact that I am alone.

And what could I do about that, in my position? What could anyone?

We're stuck in the past, and we can't move on.

And sometimes I forget how pointless it is to try.

-Arthur Kirkland

.

Dear Francis,

I'm remembering the day you first met Jeanne. It was a sunny day in England for once, warm and clear. You were walking to a café; she was exiting a bookstore when her copy of Romeo and Juliet fell from her fingers. You picked it up, handed it to her, accompanied with a kiss to the hand. You two hit it off immediately, and walked together to the café, where you bought her drinks, and started up a discussion about literature.

I don't think you ever knew that I was there on that day. Walking quickly down the street, I paused when I saw you. And as you walked away with her, I felt like I truly was the only one left behind. I stood, watching the other people swirl around me with colours and movement, all going somewhere, with purpose, and there I was: drifting, purposeless. Staring after.

The empty void in my heart expanded, crating a chasm too deep, too far for anyone to cross. And there wasn't anyone to try.

And I never told you that I really was sorry.

For what happened to her.

-Arthur Kirkland

.

Dear Francis,

It's the anniversary of Ludwig and Lovino's death today. Again, I'm alone, and I'm still wondering. Why? Why was Lovino even in that car? Didn't he know that Ludwig was drunk? Didn't Ludwig know better?

Was he really trying to kill the "precious tomato?"

Again, we won't ever know. There will only be this mistaken force of blame thrown on those we call our friends, simply because we lost something. Because when it truly mattered, our friendships fell apart. The things we thought we valued fell away into a whirlpool of selfish desire and shame.

Because the truth is, we blame ourselves. We always blame ourselves, and can't bear the weight of that blame, so we lash out. We lash out on those whom care about us, until they don't care anymore. And we think we're doing good, that we are liberating ourselves, but in reality, we are just digging our hole down deeper.

We are poor misguided fools, and truly all we are doing is slowly killing ourselves.

Not that I actually mind that much.

I'm still not sure Alfred was right when he saved me.

-Arthur Kirkland


	3. Chapter 3

Dear Francis,

Remember that time, when we were in grade ten and we had that stupid substitute teacher in English? The one who started saying that the weather could actually control feelings, and when it was sunny the only thing you could be was happy? And how the entire class ran outside and started dancing in the rain, just to prove her wrong?

Alfred was so pissed at me. He got mad at me for risking myself, and how I was going to get a cold, and I shouldn't have even been outside. And I felt kind of guilty. But all it took was a single look at you face, from across the courtyard, a secret smile in your eyes, and I knew that everything was okay.

That I made the right choice.

I wonder how we lived after that. How we managed to put one foot in front of the other, pretending we hated each other. I'm not sure we fooled anyone except ourselves. And even then, it wasn't a very good disguise.

I guess I hold grudges for too long, because by then there really shouldn't have been a problem with us being friends. But for some reason it was.

There aren't any words to describe how surprised I was, when you took the news that I tried to kill myself that badly.

Somehow, I'd managed to convince myself that you didn't care.

More regrets.

-Arthur Kirkland

.

Dear Francis,

I (more accurately Dylan) came across the script for the old Shakespeare play we had to put on. I'd forgotten how ridiculous A Midsummer Night's Dream was. I tried to recite my lines, and completely botched the Shakespearian English, but I remembered the gist of it. I think. Maybe.

It reminded me of all those nights we'd spent sneaking into each others dorm rooms, just so we could practice. Lovino called us a bunch of idiots, but in the end, the effort paid off. We were, by far the best and most professional group, despite Alfred pulling the curtains down in the dress rehearsal and spraining his ankle. I don't think I'd ever seen that side of Matthew before. We were lucky to have such a good replacement.

Looking back on it, I can see what Alfred saw in him. I can see all the qualities he possessed, that I myself didn't, and the list of justifications just grows longer. I consider him better that me. Superior.

I'm happy for Alfred.

He was spared this hell hole our lives became.

I wonder if he even knows how many of us died.

-Arthur Kirkland

.

Dear Francis,

Something on the news today reminded me of Yao. A young girl was raped, beaten to death, and left in an alleyway to rot. And I found myself wondering about that girl. Who was she? Was she happy in life, or would she be glad to see it go? And her family, how are they taking the news?

Did she have someone like Ivan?

Her own personal savoir who would risk everything just to save the one he loved? Who wouldn't accept her just being gone, and did everything in his power to find her and bring her home.

Did she die screaming for mercy, not for herself but for her lover, just like Yao?

Did he die alone in the hospital, of multiple gun and stab wounds, filled with the knowledge that he had failed? That the one he had loved had been brutally killed before his very eyes, and that he could do nothing?

Did the sisters come in crying and screaming like Katusha and Natalia, or did they stay silent and solemn like Kiku?

With her Ivan dead and gone, was there even anyone to place flowers on her grave?

How can we ever know? We weren't there.

And even if we were, wouldn't the knowledge kill us too?

-Arthur Kirkland

.

Dear Francis,

I had a garden once. When I was younger, about eight or so, before you moved to England. My mother had shown me which plants to grow and where. Showed me how to water them, how to tell if they were healthy, how to remove the weeds that prevented the good flowers from growing.

I loved that garden.

Every day after school I would run home to tend to it. I spent hours out there, tending to the plants, and making houses for the fairies that I was sure would come to dance and play if I made it perfect enough. My favourite things, however, were the roses. My mother said that they were planted by her mother and that it took someone with a special touch to make them grow. They weren't the usual red roses either. They were white and red, sort of streaked. My dad thought they were ugly. To me they were the most beautiful things in the world.

Well, one day Alistair got home early enough to find that it was me taking care of the garden and not my mother, and that I was talking to the fairies. He took it upon himself to prove to me just how wrong I was. I woke up one morning to find the plants completely mangled the entire garden in shambles. My brother was just sitting there, at the kitchen table, calmly drinking tea, and a self satisfied smirk on his face. And I just broke.

I screamed at him, calling him the most offensive names I knew, pummelling him as best I could, tears streaming down my face, but as is always the case with my older brother, he just ignored me.

Hearing the commotion, my mother came into the kitchen, took one look at the garden before turning on Alistair and yelling at him too. He seemed unfazed, and his smirk only grew bigger as my father entered the room.

That was the first time I would see my father beat my mother, and it wouldn't be the last.

Amidst all the commotion, I ran outside, searching the garden for anything salvageable.

There was only one rose plant, stalk almost severed, but with still enough leaves to continue living.

I dug up the plant, put it in a pot, and hid it in my room, far away from the influence of my brother's harmful gaze.

The rose was still alive, and when I moved into the college dorm, and I took it with me.

I think you can guess where it is now.

-Arthur Kirkland


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Gasp! What's this? Another chapter! We're coming up on the end now. There is only one more chapter** **and an epilouge of sorts after this and then we're done. Oh well. If anyone gets really confused and requests it, I'll add on the events in the order they actually happened, but I'd rather not have to. I still don't own Hetalia. Editing is not my strong point, and I don't want to read over what I've written, because I have a good idea for the end of the epilouge that I want to write tonight. Mistakes are my fault, but do not blame them on me! :)**

Dear Francis,

I've been trying to think of anyone who came out okay, amidst the whole slew of catastrophes that became our lives. Besides Alfred and Matthew, obviously.

I hope their eloped life is better than this one.

But besides them, who else is there?

Natalia still has to be sedated and put in a straight jacket every once and a while, when her madness becomes uncontrollable. Elisaveta and Roderich are still married, but last time I checked, both were unhappy and cheating on the other. We've dragged two other innocents, Vash and Bella, into our unhappy circle of life. And Vash's little sister Lilli too, because she has nowhere else to go.

I have no real idea about Katusha, but from what little contact I have with Eduard, she is just as fearsome a mafia boss as her brother. And unlike him, she's completely heartless.

Felix still goes to give Toris flowers every day, even though he's been in a coma for thirteen years.

And Ravis. Poor little Ravis… Moved away with Berwald, when he and Tino separated, I think… Tino took Peter. More unhappiness.

Matthias is still probably a homeless drunk, his two brothers he claimed hailed from Norway and Iceland will probably never see him again. That is if he hasn't died of starvation.

Kiku was pretty successful. He runs a good business, and makes a lot of money over in Japan. But he is alone. As far as I can tell, he has isolated himself inside his house, only coming out to make press conferences, or on extreme orders from his boss. And even then he barely says anything. He is probably just as unhappy as the rest of us. Never to see the light of hope again.

It kinda makes you envy Alfred and Matthew doesn't it. They managed to get out, leaving everything to crumble on top of us.

But at the same time it doesn't. At least someone got something good out of all the pain. Somewhere out there, there are two young men who got their happily ever after. Who will stand strong beside each other, because that it what friends do. That is what lovers do. And despite the fact that there are so many dead, and our lives just crumbled to shit, at least _someone_ is happy at the end. At least _someone_ gets to sleep happy, and not to be awakened by the nightmares that always follow you, three steps away. Only close enough to touch your shadow, but groundbreaking all the same.

Bitter laughter, is the only thing that remains.

We are broken. Scattered fragments, blowing in the wind.

Ashes on the fire.

-Arthur Kirkland.

.

Dear Francis,

I met a man today going on and on about his ex girlfriend. They had been dating for a while, about six months I believe, before she informed him that she had been cheating on him for two months, and wanted to break up.

And he got so mad, saying that if she really wanted to be with someone else why didn't she break up with him after the fourth month point? She didn't have a proper answer.

And it reminded me so much of me, that I had to start laughing. I mean, it wasn't six months, it was more like six years, and it took an entire two years of cheating for me to find out, and I only found out because Gilbert got in a rage over Matthew.

I mean, two months I can understand. Maybe even six. But two whole years of lying to your partner? Playing a game with everyone's hearts? What was Alfred thinking?

You know, he probably wasn't.

The fact that I might kill myself if he left me probably didn't even enter into the equation.

The funny thing is, I didn't even notice that he was distancing himself from me, until after the two of them had gone off to Canada, leaving Gilbert and I alone. And I realise now, that I didn't really care about Alfred separating from me, it was just that he lied to me for two years.

And then told me straight to the face that I wasn't worthy of being loved.

By anyone.

Ever.

And that stung. It hurt me so much more that the one time I realised that if I died in the moment, I wouldn't care.

I trusted him.

Look where that left me.

-Arthur Kirkland

.

Dear Francis,

I've been thinking about the whole Antonio hating you thing. And I think I've come up with a sort of decent reason. You guys used to be really close right? The bad touch trio and everything… hehehe, that brings up memories. Anyways…

He was visiting his mother in Spain when it happened right? He thought that if Gilbert could've talked to someone, someone he trusted, then maybe the whole thing could have been avoided. But he couldn't do anything. He was in Spain. And despite the fact that you were still grieving over the death of Jeanne, he somehow got it into his head that you were supposed to have been the one to help Gilbert.

His confidante, as it were.

It's the same thing Ludwig thought of Antonio.

But if you're thinking about it like that, shouldn't I have been the one to comfort you? After all, you knew me the longest. And you must admit than in the right setting you were more honest to me than you ever were to Gilbert and Antonio.

But instead of coming to your aid and helping you get over a death that had occurred almost a full year before, because it was obvious you weren't doing it on your own, I rapped myself up in my own insecurities about Alfred and spat in your face.

And that fight absolutely didn't do anything. You left feeling worse, and I was left feeling inadequate, all we wanted was comfort and to be understood, but we pushed away the only person capable of doing so. No wonder you didn't notice Gilbert acting differently.

But following the same line of reasoning as before wouldn't that make Gilbert's death my fault? Because I was too stuck up to help my fellow man?

Would things have turned out differently if I had just rejected Alfred in the first place, like I'd wanted too?

The regret builds, stacking on itself like a pyramid, becoming harder to ignore with every brick.

-Arthur Kirkland


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Man, I'm on a roll today. Two chapters out! And it's mildly happy this time. Well sort of. I'm listening to Time from the Inception soundtrack as I write this. It might add mood. or not. I still don't own Hetalia.**

Dear Francis,

Do you remember the time we went skating? We had the entire rink to ourselves, and when we first stepped onto the ice you were perfectly graceful while I was "bumbling around like a bear?" But then by the end of it I was easily going as fast as you, and could pull off more "stunts" as Alfred would call them.

You teased my about my eyebrows, I insulted your hair, you tried to catch me, and I skated away as fast as I could. You tricked me into stopping though, and ploughed right into me falling on top of me. You kissed me, and I hit you, you apologized (sort of) and then we went back to chasing each other around.

Somehow we got stuck on doing impressions of our friends in ridiculous circumstances, which got too funny to bare after Alfred was turned into a bear, and stumbled upon Gilbert, who proceeded to run the heck out of there and was about to get mauled before Lovino showed up drunk with a steamroller…

I can't actually remember a time that I laughed more than on that day. It's funny, but out of all the things I regret, most of them happen to do with not spending time with you. And out of all the happy memories, most of them don't truly shine without you in them.

You bought me hot chocolate, and called me mon cher, and even though you say that to everyone, it made me feel special. You were the only one I could ever talk to about the frustrations with my brothers, and the bickering was fun most of the time. I enjoyed the challenge of talking to you, even if I got embarrassed some times. We spent so much time together trying to find a weakness, but when push came to shove, we would be there for each other.

It's funny. I've heard it said that tragedy can pull a group of people together, but with us, it just pulled us apart. There are so many things in life that I regret. So many words unsaid, feelings unspoken. Broken promises, mistakes half made. Words that hurt more than they should.

But out of all the things I regret, meeting you is not one of them. I am so very glad that I met you, and I really wouldn't change our time spent together. I would instead tell Alfred no, and then go and talk to you. And fight for you. Because I realise this now.

When I knew you, I loved you.

Even though I hated your accent, your clothes, how you could cook so much better than me, and could attract more girls because of your pretty face, even through all of that.

When I knew you, I loved you.

I still love you now.

When I'm alone in the dark, or the silence is overpowering, I think of you. Of your smile, your face, your laugh. I imagine you're there with me, and suddenly the darkness isn't so hard to bare anymore.

I've spent my entire life alone, waiting for you, but knowing you are never coming. I've cried over you, but there are no more tears to shed now. What's done is done.

The only sad thing, I guess, is that you will never know I loved you. I can write the words on this piece of paper, but I know they will never be sent. I have no idea where to send them to. You disappeared off the map.

And I'll never know if you loved me back. I'll never know if you'd accept me, and if you regret our parting just as much as I do. I'll never know if you got your dream job of working at a five star restaurant, or if you got stuck like me at a boring desk job. I won't know if you still cry in lord of the rings, or if you've learned to tolerate butter on your popcorn, or if you wake up each morning alone, or with a companion by your side.

And you'll never know I loved you.

And I wonder if you care.

I wonder, if you think of me as often as I of you. I wonder if you look up at the stars at night, and remember the fireworks. I wonder if, whenever you put on skates and step out onto the ice, you mind if filled with the images of bear mauling and Alfred running around like a headless chicken getting chased by Matthew with a chainsaw.

Do you put more honour onto the day people died, rather than the day they were born? You probably do. Even now, you are probably still mourning Jeanne.

And despite what I said earlier, it is okay to grieve. To hold on to the dead, long after they've past. It is human nature after all.

And in all my years, there are very few truths I can rely on. The most important one though, is: It's okay to cry.

There will never be a time, in grief or sorrow, where it is not appropriate to cry. But just because there are tears streaming down your face, does not mean you can't strengthen you stride, straighten your back. Grief is a part of us. It always has been, and always will be. But we can't let it rule us. That is where we went wrong, all those years ago. We let grief take over our lives, and lost what was most important to us. Our friendship. Our love. Our trust.

The family we had so carefully built, around Gilbert and Lovino and Ivan and Yao, Antonio, Ludwig, Matthew, and all the others. It fell apart because the grief got to us. We lived in the past. That is why life seems like hell.

But if we had learned to let it go, to look back and search for something, we would have found a plant. It may have been crushed, and been barely green, but it was something worth looking for.

It took me ten years, but I have found it. I have found the truth.

Francis Bonnefoy: I love you.

-Arthur Kirkland


	6. An Epilogue of Sorts

**A/N: This is it. The End. Did anyone notice that one of Arthur's brothers was never mentioned? I wouldn't exactly call this a happy endind, but a hopeful one. I'm proud of what this story has become though. I still don't own Hetalia.**

**And people out there, I'm a new writer, so if you are reading this, can you please review? Even if it's just a "Cool story bro" It would be nice to know that someone out there is reading this.**

**But enough about that. Enjoy the grand finale.**

Francis sighed. It was his day off, but he was alone in the house until his wife Michelle got home from the stand she worked at selling flowers. He himself worked in a small bakery. It was no five star restaurant, but it made him happy enough. Or at least, he didn't hate it. The truth was, it was hard to find something he has any enthusiasm for anymore. He was ever grateful to Michelle, but their love had never really had that spark of passion. It had waned long ago. Still she was decent company, and the two lived together for mutual comfort. Francis sighed again, and went back to what he was doing before. Watering his roses.

He stopped briefly to smell them, before continuing to his bedroom to water his favourite plant. It was a rose, like all the others, but instead of being red, it was sort of white and red streaked. Someone had left it on his doorstep, soon after Jeanne died. He had almost completely severed the stem opening his door, but the plant had made a full recovery. Almost as if it had done something similar before…

He'd never found out who had sent him that flower. He would have to assume that whoever it was had great taste, because the rose bush was beautiful.

He was interrupted by a nock on the door. Covering ground swiftly, he moved to open the door, to reveal a person he'd never seen before in his life.

Bright red hair, piercing green eyes, and enormous eyebrows, wait…

"William?"

"Good to see you too Francis," William said from the other side of the door.

"I-uhh, It's nice to see you… Uh" Francis was at a loss for words, having no clue what to do when the brother of his friend/rival showed up on his doorstep after almost fourteen years of no contact. "Is Arthur here with you as well?" Francis had never been on any sort of speaking terms with any of Arthur's brothers so…

The smile fell off William's face as quickly as it appeared. "Mind if I come in?" he asked. Francis stepped aside, allowing the redhead into his home. Something must have happened otherwise he wouldn't be here, Francis concluded. William did a full spin taking in the decorum, before settling his eyes on Francis.

"Why don't you come and sit down," Francis said, leading the way to the living room. "Can I get you anything? Some tea, perhaps?"

"No, I'm good." With that Francis dropped easily onto his comfortable but ugly floral patterned couch. William sat awkwardly on the chair opposite, made of smooth faux leather. It looked fantastic, but wasn't actually a nice chair comfort wise.

"Did Arthur send you, or something?"

"Francis," he began, then hesitated. He visibly took a deep breath before making eye contact and continuing. "Arthur's dead." Francis felt his heart sink. Sorry, that's an understatement. It felt like someone had ripped his heart from his chest dropped it in liquid nitrogen and then threw it on the floor so it shattered. That same person had then picked of the shattered shards and tried to shove them back in. As slowly as possible, so that Francis was writhing in agony.

"What? When? How?" Francis' voice was quiet. William looked at him with sympathetic eyes.

"Bout three years ago. Cancer. Died in his sleep ya know. He was lucky."

"But, why—Three years ago that's just… So long… Couldn't I have been told earlier or…"

"I tried, Ya Idiot!" Francis flinched at the tone. "I've been searching for you this entire time! It wasn't like your tracks were easy to trace!" Francis felt guilt at that. He really hadn't wanted to be found.

"But you… Why?" William sighed.

"I was in America, studying to be an architect, Alistair only told me when it was imminent that Arthur was going to die within the week. Before that I hadn't even know. And the other brothers… yeah they visited, but they essentially ignored him and left him to die. Alone." Francis swallowed, his mouth dry. Where were the tears when he desperately wanted to cry? "Anyways, the hospital nurses told me that when he was awake, pretty much all he did was write."

William pulled a stack of letters out of his satchel. Francis noted that they were all addressed to him.

"He would have sent them himself, ya know. If he knew where to… Anyways, I didn't read any of them. But he poured his heart and soul into those things. And I thought he would want me to give them to you." Francis nodded, emotions overfilling him and not letting him trust himself to speak. He accepted the letters, silently.

"I'll leave ya then." William's voice was soft. "If ya want me, ya know where to find me."

"Wait!" Francis called. William froze. "Where," Francis forced out the words, "where is he buried?"

"On the top of the hill, between Gilbert and Lovino. He would have wanted it." Francis nodded solemnly. William bowed, before turning again.

He closed the door softly on his way out.

Francis curled into a tight ball, vision blurring as the tears finally came. Arthur had died like the rest of them. He had been ripped away from an uncaring world and Francis would never get to see him again. Never get to see his smile, hear his laugh, and his insults. Never smell his hair, or feel the taste of his lips…

He clung to the letters with desperate fingers, hoping that there were some kind words, some kind of hope contained within them. After all, the handful of crumpled pages were the only things left of the person who might just have been the most important figure in his life. His first love…

Had Arthur really spent so much of his time, when he knew he was dying, trying to send a message he couldn't? Francis curled even tighter, his sobs echoing through the house. He had been wrong. Oh so wrong, when he ran away from everything he knew, abandoning those who cared about him. He should have at least left some way to contact him.

The regret that had been slowly gnawing on him came back in full force, like a mallet to the head. A wave smashing violently onto the shore. Arthur had died, and Arthur had died alone.

But Arthur had sent him a message. The letters were a link to the past, and maybe, maybe if he was just lucky enough, they would guide him on a journey. Backwards through all the pain and suffering, the years of silence that hurt worse than that fighting. Back to where it all began.

The journey home.

Could he do it? Did he have enough strength to pull through the unhappy memories? He had to do it for Arthur's sake. He had to.

Arthur did not deserve to die alone.

Dear Francis,

I can hear the nurses whispering in corners now. They want to give a good impression, provide hope, but I know there isn't much time left for me. Or in fact, any time at all. I'm going to talk to a doctor, and ask them to cut off my life support while I'm asleep. I really don't want to drag this out; all it would do is hurt, especially for William who flew in from America just to see me.

He says Alistair didn't tell him until now. Typical. He shouldn't have to be here to see this. I don't want others to watch me die. At the same time, I'm rather glad to know he cares.

You know, Francis, wherever you are, I hope you have a good life. I hope you fill it with good food, and with passion and romance. I hope you laugh until you burst, and wake up with a smile on your face, happy to start of each day. You deserved so much better that the cards you were dealt. But, you know.

Take what you can get.

If I could see you one last time, do you know what I would do? What I would want? Because it's not to tell you I love you. It's not to kiss you or sleep with you (We never did that Goddamit!) or anything else.

Not to smile, or tell jokes, or tease you about your feminine hair, which I loved to death is you must know.

What I want is something we never had. In truth, my only wish… Is a chance to say goodbye.

Instead of the harsh words that left us broken and storming away from each other, never to look at each other's faces again, I want to look into the face of my love, and tell him sincerely, the one thing I wish I could say now.

Live long and prosper, my love.

Goodbye.

~Three Months Later~

William sighed, as he strode through the graveyard; on his last visit here before he headed back to America. He'd bumped into the Frenchman heading out, as he was on the way in. Just another chance encounter. Francis hadn't looked happy, but there was a determination in his eyes that hadn't been there before. William looked down on his brother's grave.

"Hey laddie. I've uh, got some things to say to ye, before I head back to America, ya know? Well I just wanted to say… I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything you had to go through. Everything I'd done to hurt you, and everything our brothers are too stupid to take responsibility for. I'd never wanted this for you. I wanted you to be happy. So I uh, gave the Frenchman your letters. Hope you're happy about that; it sure was hard for me to find him. But you deserve to rest in peace."

"I just bumped into him on my way here, actually. He said something about you dying with a million regrets, and how he was going to change that. He's going to Spain, ya know? Said he was going to get a second chance. And if that chance wasn't given, he was going to take it by force. I don't know what he was talking about, do you? But he was going to talk of Antonio and Feliciano, and said something about tracking down Alfred and Matthew. He was going to 're-build the family' whatever that means. But anyways. I never told ye that I really did love you, even if I had a poor way of showing it. You're dead now, so it doesn't matter but… No matter what you think, you did die loved. So I guess this is goodbye, my sweet, sweet brother. I'll miss ya more than ya'd think."

William stopped speaking and looked at the grave. His brother was gone now, and he had to open a new chapter in his book. He had to move on. He laid his bouquet of daisies, mindful of the other flowers scattering the grave. Then he turned, and left the graveyard.

In front of the head stone, forgotten but still present and bound with a blue ribbon, was a single rose. White, with splashes of red. Almost like streaks. And a smooth white card bore words in sharp green ink and looping handwriting:

_Love you too, Mon Amour._


End file.
